


Of Dangerous Promises and Hotel Room Celebrations

by maschh



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alcohol, M/M, World Cup 2010, spain nt, we love consent dot com
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-19
Updated: 2016-03-19
Packaged: 2018-05-27 15:40:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6290269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maschh/pseuds/maschh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After they win the World Cup, Pique and Cesc end up in a hotel room wasted. How to be drunk and secretly in love with each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

They leave together, as is expected of them.  
  
It's not because of their status as “best friends.” Though they are, real best friends. They're the kind where everyone knows they're best friends but somehow they're still approachable, together and individually, the kind that live far apart but still know everything about each other, the kind that are just as good friends as they seem to be in public, the kind that don't fake anything for anyone, just simply _like_ each other. They always have done. They don't leave together because they're best friends. They leave together, in truth, because Cesc was a designated driver and no one else trusted his driving enough to bring them back to the hotel.  
  
But right now, as he realizes the road looks a little wobblier than usual, Cesc wishes he felt a little more designated. He's not wasted, but he's not dumb either, and he knows he's in no state to drive. He leaves his car in the driveway of the restaurant (someone'll get it in the morning) and tries to hail a cab. Gerard is somewhere behind him, he's not quite sure. He'd been singing the Torres song, but now has switched to humming Spain's national anthem.

“We won, Cesc!”

“I know!"

“It was worth it."

“Yeah,” Cesc says absentmindedly as a cab pulls up and lets them in. The driver gives them a huge gleaming smile and adds a “Congratulations” to his greeting.

Cesc loses his balance and hits the backseat with a _thump_ , but the driver doesn't complain. When they get in, Gerard puts his head on Cesc's shoulder, not without difficulty, and smiles up at him as they speed off. His huge hand falls a little far high up Cesc's thigh, unwittingly making the Catalan squirm. He blinks slower than usual.

“Sleepy?” Cesc asks. They speak in Catalan, like always.

Gerard yawns in response. “It was a good day.”

“Yeah.”

“I must have hugged Andres about eighteen times.”

Cesc giggles. “I know.” He adds, “I'm sure I hugged Sergio at least—”

“You were so good today,” Gerard slurs, interrupting him.

Cesc blushes a little. His friend doesn't say things like this often. He's glad the car's dark.

“Don't blush,” Gerard chuckles. _Fuck._ “You were. You nearly scored.” Cesc shrugs. “Ow,” whines the older man as his head bounces.

Cesc giggles again, a bit nervously. “Sorry.” They break into laughter and the driver gives them a glance from the rearview mirror, which of course only sets them off again.

“I'm so drunk,” Gerard stage-whispers, even though Cesc very much doubts the driver both speaks Catalan and is following their conversation. Nevertheless, the proximity sends chills down his spine. He tries not to shiver ( _don't give it away_ ). Then Gerard adds, a little louder, “I think you are too.”

“I'm not!” Cesc pouts, but Gerard knows him too well. He stares him down until Cesc finally giggles again. “Okay, okay, maybe a little!”

Gerard scoffs. “Lightweight.”

“So?” Cesc sticks out his bottom lip.

“Nothing,” Gerard says nonchalantly.

“At least I didn't spit on anyone on the bus,” Cesc taunts, cracking up mid-sentence. Gerard actually looks a bit insulted.

“Hey, Villa dared me to do it! You can't back down from one of his dares!” Cesc scoffs. This is true, but he chooses to ignore that.

“Dirty boy,” he says instead without knowing why. Gerard raises his eyebrows suggestively, and then they erupt into giggles yet again.

Luckily, they pull up in front of the hotel before the driver can throw them out of the cab or one of them can do something they'll later regret in the backseat. They tip him better than they mean to and stagger off towards the front doors.

“Have a good night!” the driver calls.

Gerard pulls Cesc through the hotel so excitedly that they remind themselves (and the few people who are nearby) of kids on a field trip, except maybe for the brown paper bag Gerard's got in his other hand, holding some drink that neither of them need at this point. In the back of his mind (way far back) Cesc keeps an eye out for other Spanish players, other World Cup players, though he can't say why. They aren't doing anything wrong.  
  
They're alone in the elevator, which is a relief because the last thing they need at this point is another source of embarrassment. Also because Gerard's taken to sliding his hand under Cesc's shirt, seemingly unconsciously. Gerard hits the button for floor 21, and Cesc goes to hit 18, his floor number, but Gerard stops him.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Come back to mine,” says the defender, a surprisingly sober look in his eye. Then again, he's always been good at faking those.  
  
“Why?” Cesc tries to make sense of it, though it's a bit difficult in his current state of mind.  
  
Gerard shrugs. “We'll keep drinking, keep celebrating. Don't go to bed,” he adds with a hint of puppy dog eyes. Cesc feels himself about to cave, and then the elevator doors ding and there they are at 21. Past his floor. _Ah well._ Gerard guides him through the door and he offers little – fuck, not _any_ if he's honest – resistance.  
  
No one's around up here, it's late enough for that, but Cesc still feels a bit nervous as Gerard struggles a bit to open the door. Guilty? Why? But these thoughts are too deep and complicated because Gerard's closing the door and the view is just incredible and it's a little warm in here and wow Gerard's taking off his clothes...?  
  
Oh, it's just an overshirt, but it's plenty and now he's swinging his shirt around wildly and Cesc can't help but laugh, hard and long and he falls down onto the sofa watching his friend whoop and cheer almost incoherently. Finally he flings the shirt somewhere and pitches the brown paper bag into Cesc's hands. It falls heavy and Cesc grunts. He opens it and sees an unfamiliar-looking bottle. He glances up at Gerard who is now sporting a devilish grin.  
  
“Haven't you had enough?"  
  
Gerard scoffs. “MAMAAAA,” he chides, sitting down on the couch and inching closer to him.  
  
“Stop it!” Cesc warns, laughing, pushing him away.  
  
“MAMA! I want the wine!” Gerard cries again.  
  
“Stop! Gerard!” Cesc tries to interrupt him but to no avail.  
  
“Mama, I want to drink the wine! I want to drink the wine with dinner!” Finally Cesc shuts up. He can never win at this game. Gerard smiles triumphantly and takes it from his friend and then takes a swig. Cesc shakes his head. Gerard finishes and smacks his lips. “What? It's so good.”  
  
“You're gross.”  
  
“You're—” Gerard struggles for a clever comeback— “not drunk enough. Here,” he says, holding out the bottle. “For you.”  
  
Cesc hesitates.  
  
"Go on, have a swig,” Gerard instructs and Cesc finally complies, though not without glaring at Gerard first. “You like?” It's strong and sweet and he's surprised to find he does, actually. It's not wine. He nods. Gerard giggles. “I knew you would."  
  
He takes it back and peers into the bottle. “Oh, look. Not much more. You want some, yeah?”  
  
“A little bit,” Cesc admits.  
  
Gerard wonders for a minute. Then an idea pops into his head – he almost wants to laugh at his genius. He takes a huge swig of the remainder of the bottle and licks his lips ferociously as it goes down, smearing it all over his lips obscenely. Cesc stares.  
  
“What'd you do that for?” he manages to get out.  
  
“Taste it,” Gerard insists.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Taste it...on me.”  
  
But Cesc is much too awkward to do anything himself, can't even react properly, is in fact wondering a little bit if this is a dream (because he's had a few too many dreams along these lines). So Gerard pulls him in and suddenly they're kissing, hot and wet, tongues intertwined and yes, he tastes exactly like the drink, sweet and delicious, kind of fruity and just... _lovely_.  
  
Gerard pulls away much too soon, but his hand still tucked around Cesc's neck, and the younger man is left breathless. A bit in shock. Gerard smiles, his cocky drinking smile. “You like that better?”  
  
“Much,” Cesc breathes. They both chuckle a little. Before the silence gets too long, Cesc moves in cautiously, ever so slightly, and Gerard is quick to close the distance between them. He goes for Cesc's shirt first thing (what he's been dying to do long before the elevator, even). It's more difficult than it looks (maybe he's more drunk than he realizes) but they manage to get it off eventually. Gerard's giggling a bit uncontrollably, kissing Cesc's neck and causing little tremors with each laugh. Cesc squirms but tilts his head back, allowing him access and savoring the pressure against his groin.  
  
“Let me blow you,” Gerard whispers into his neck. Cesc gulps, afraid it – this, him – is too good to be true. Given permission, Gerard inches his hand lower toward the Catalan's jeans, which could have the potential to be a nightmare, what with all the buttons and zippers and such. Cesc is ready to let Gerard do the work, but after a minute or so, he looks down impatiently and sees him fumbling with the (actually fairly simple) zipper.  
  
“You okay?”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, I'm fine.”  
  
“You sure?”  
  
“Well, it's hard!” he says exasperatedly.  
  
Gerard pulls a little too hard at the zipper and now Cesc is just acting out of self-preservation. “Stop,” he says, pushing Gerard's hands away. “Let me.” He undoes the zipper in one simple motion and Gerard mock-glares at him. “You must be really drunk.”  
  
"Shut up,” Gerard says, tugging at Cesc's jeans.  
  
“Really drunk,” Cesc muses as his jeans fall to the floor and Gerard gets down on his knees. “You won't remember this in the morning.”  
  
“Probably not,” Gerard concedes, barely listening.  
  
“Then—I don't think we should be doing this,” Cesc says, and holds fast on his boxers.  
  
“What?” Gerard looks up at him incredulously.  
  
“You're wasted.”  
  
“So?”  
  
“You'll wake up tomorrow and wonder why the fuck you're sleeping next to me."  
  
“So? I don't care.” He tries to tug on Cesc's boxers again.  
  
“Don't tell me how fucking commonplace this is for you.” He can't keep the bitterness out of his voice.  
  
Gerard gets up, kisses the younger man tenderly on both cheeks and then lightly on the lips. “Cesc...baby...we won the World Cup today,” he laughs. “What better way to celebrate?”  
  
“I just...I feel like I would be taking advantage of you.”  
  
Gerard laughs softly. “Taking advantage of me? This...this is _all_ I want.” He runs a knuckle over Cesc's erection, eliciting a low groan. “We won't fuck. Just let me blow you.”  
  
And he really could use some release right now. Cesc whimpers softly. He so wants to do the right thing.  
  
“Then you'll fall asleep...I'll probably jerk myself off...who cares what we remember tomorrow?”  
  
Cesc swallows hard. “I do. I'm sorry.” Gerard pulls away and their eyes meet for a full minute without either of them saying anything. “You won't remember tomorrow. But I'm not drunk enough to forget. Please, I don't want it to be like this,” Cesc pleads.  
  
“We have any more alcohol?” Gerard jokes. Cesc smiles, shakes his head sadly. They sink back on the couch on opposite sides, eyeing each other without pause. Cesc is still only wearing his boxers.  
  
After a minute or so, Gerard asks, “Well, what are we gonna do about _that_?” and points to the still-prominent bulge in Cesc's boxers. "We've got to do something."  
  
Cesc nods, considering it. “I mean...I could touch myself and you could watch. That wouldn't be too bad, right?”  
  
Gerard gives him a naughty grin and quickly sheds his own pants. “Better yet...”  
  
Later, when they've both collapsed on the now-ruined couch, slick with come and sweat and wearing nothing but lazy, drunken smiles, Cesc glances over at the almost-unconscious man next to him and promises under his breath, “Next time.”


	2. Two

Cesc cleans Piqué up that night. Without even waking him up -- he's practically comatose. He doesn't even flinch when Cesc rubs him down with a damp towel. Then he slides him into boxers and a pair of pants (not the same ones but they'll do) and it isn't even awkward because really, he's seen this body do a lot worse. He doesn't bother with a shirt – Piqué won't remember and it's completely possible that he could have passed out shirtless – when he leaves him on the couch and finally walks out of the hotel room at some ungodly hour.  
  
He passes out in his own bed, three flights below, and is asleep almost instantly.  
  
~  
  
Their teammates make fun of them because of it, say they “can't get enough of each other,” and Cesc wonders for a while – much too long actually – if that's true. But they do it anyway, they go straight to Ibiza together after the World Cup. It's Spain but it's still vacation, the perfect mix for them.

Villa says to Cesc, “Aren't you guys sick of each other yet?”  
  
“I'm sick of 'em,” Carles says as he walks past them, arm in arm with Piqué.  
  
Cesc laughs and gives Villa a shrug. “We both wanted to go to Ibiza.”  
  
“You bringing the girlfriends?”  
  
“They're supposed to meet us there. Working,” Cesc explains, and Villa nods, understanding. His wife only made it to Germany for a couple of matches during the last World Cup for the same reason.  
  
“Well, have fun,” Villa chuckles, walking a little ahead of him and Cesc wonders for an awful, irrational minute if he knows.  
  
~  
  
Luckily, Ibiza is gorgeous, like he's always known it to be, just sand, sea, and sun and it's good, it actually distracts him. They spend the first day beach bumming (not regular bumming, Cesc thinks to himself) and goofing around. Like they've always done. He doesn't get off on Piqué's smile, his gaze doesn't linger on his lips or God forbid, his abs that absolutely glisten in the summer sun, they're just having a good time like they always do.  
  
As it turns out, Carla calls Cesc that night while he and Piqué are having a late dinner in the center of town. She tells him that she and Nuria won't be able to come down for another two days. He panics a little – he doesn't trust himself around Piqué, and worse, he has no idea if his friend even remembers why he feels this way – but he manages to contain himself and carry on a bit of a conversation.  
  
Piqué sits back and watches, an amused look on his face. “I don't know if you know, but Nuria's not coming down for another couple of days,” Cesc says warily after he hangs up. “Neither is Carla. Held up at work.”  
  
“I heard,” Piqué says, still smiling.  
  
“Not at all worried?” Cesc shoots him a confused glance.  
  
“No, why would I be? I mean, it's a drag...for them. But, us—” he gestures around them, at the palm trees, the hills, and the ocean— “we're in paradise! Champions of the World Cup, Cescki!”  
  
“You're right, you're right,” Cesc grins. He raises his glass and clinks it with his friend's. They both take a drink and sigh, maybe more contentedly than they should.  
  
“You know, we haven't even celebrated here,” Piqué says after a while. “We haven't taken advantage of what Ibiza has.”  
  
“And what is that?” Cesc asks, though he thinks he knows the answer.  
  
Piqué just smiles at him.  
  
~  
  
The streets are packed, hot and dense with yellow streetlights that make everything a bit hazy. It's that time of the summer. Piqué leads Cesc through the crowds – there are people absolutely everywhere, smiling and laughing and drinking and dancing. Their eyes lit up as the men walk past, as they see first one and then the other and make the connection, but Piqué is quick enough so all they get are a few smiles and brushed elbows (which may be enough).   
  
“Do you know where you're going?” Cesc yells after a while and Piqué waves him off in a gesture that is probably supposed to be a bit more reassuring.  
  
They finally stop in front of a club that Cesc doubts, but Piqué says, “Let's try this place” and heads in before the younger man can even argue. He rolls his eyes but somehow can't manage to keep the grin off his face.  
  
The night moves quickly, all sweaty bodies and throbbing basses and not enough air, but tonight, this time, it might be okay. Cesc dances with Piqué, without him, more often than not he's not sure which is which. He loses himself in the music, and all the sore muscles and aches are forgotten. The best therapy. He's feeling lightheaded but it's not from alcohol – not from the beer and a half that he had tonight.  
  
He's jerked from his stupor when a pair of arms tightens around his waist. He leans his head to the side, just slightly. Then he arches back into the touch, reaches up and runs a hand through the foreigner's hair. Just checking. As if he couldn't tell from the height.  
  
“What if it hadn't been me?” Piqué breathes in his ear.  
  
Cesc keeps moving against him, keeps the friction where he wants it. Finally he shrugs, just the slightest lift of the shoulders. A bit of a tease.  
  
Piqué makes a low noise in his throat and his grip tightens. “Dirty boy.” It's so quiet Cesc almost wonders if he imagines it, but nevertheless it sends chills down his spine. _Shit shit shit_ what does he know? Does he remember? Cesc's heart pounds uncontrollably and his nervousness must show because Piqué chuckles lowly. Knowingly. Dangerously.  
  
“I think you owe me something, _chico_ ,” murmurs the taller man, lowering his hand to Cesc's belt buckle and tugging gently. “From last time, remember? You were a bit drunk.”  
  
Cesc absolutely purrs and grinds against him even harder, shamelessly, because who's watching? Who would care? What happens in Ibiza...  
  
Piqué removes Cesc's belt buckle easily (this time) and is halfway to his boxers when Cesc grips his hand to stop him. “Not here,” he says breathlessly. He zips up his pants and guides Piqué through the stuffy crowds to the more private areas, dark corners that are almost invisible and completely secluded.  
  
“You know your way around here,” Piqué teases.  
  
Cesc shrugs and kisses Piqué, letting his hands finally explore his body. The defender groans and pins Cesc against the wall. He slides a knee in between Cesc's legs, making him moan into his mouth and spread his legs. Piqué giggles a little into Cesc's lips, pleased with the reaction.  
  
Then his lips slide down Cesc's neck, kissing gently while his hand moves roughly between his legs, palming the younger man through his boxers. His mouth moves higher to Cesc's ear and he sucks on the earlobe. Cesc whimpers into his neck, can barely breathe, is so desperate for just this.  
  
“Please,” he tries, but Piqué ignores him.  
  
He pulls out Cesc's cock, already dribbling pre-come, and smears it all over the head. Cesc falls back limply, helplessly. “So beautiful,” Piqué mumbles, more to himself than Cesc, but he smiles anyway. “God, you're lovely.” Piqué cradles his balls and continues, “You have no idea how long I've wanted this.”  
  
Cesc wants to respond, wants to tell him likewise, but his mouth is soon occupied as Piqué shoves a few fingers in. Cesc gives it everything he has, slicks them until they shine, deliberately being obscene because he wants to show him how good he can be, if Piqué will just stop teasing and...  
  
Piqué pulls his fingers out and wraps his arm around Cesc's body, slowly and carefully, and sticks the first finger, the middle one, inside of Cesc. The younger man gasps. He's had his share of those but – it's been a while, and besides, Piqué's fingers are huge, he's already feeling some friction as the second finger slides in. Meanwhile, his other hand continues stroking Cesc expertly and the midfielder swears he could come right now, that this alone was worth winning the World Cup for.  
  
Piqué seems to notice this, though, because he removes the fingers. Cesc whines, and Piqué responds by pushing him into the couch.  
  
“Bend over,” he orders and Cesc does so without thinking. His hands look for something to cling onto and his cock burns against the fabric deliciously. He won't last much longer.  
  
“Good boy,” Piqué croons, his eyes stuck on the curve of his friend's ass. “So good,” he adds as he slides in, the friction almost unbearable immediately. Cesc savors the burn, glancing back to try to catch Gerard's eye.  
  
“Fuck,” he moans, his cock twitching already.  
  
Piqué thrusts in and out hard, trying to hit that sweet spot. “More?”  
  
Cesc is a mess, sprawled on the couch, completely flushed, not caring if anyone saw them at this moment. “ _Yes_ , please, God...” he rambles, incoherent. “Harder!”  
  
Piqué obliges, pounding until he pants, watching as Cesc writhes underneath him. “That good?”  
  
Cesc can only whimper in reply. He reaches down to his nearly-purple erection to finish himself off, but Gerard beats him to it, wrapping his hand around the shaft and thrusting until Cesc comes all over it, hard and long and it feels so good. Piqué comes right after, inside of Cesc and the two of them fall to the floor by the foot of the couch, giggling, pants still around their ankles.  
  
When he's caught his breath, Cesc asks, “Was that worth the wait?”  
  
Piqué laughs, suddenly shy. “Do you even have to ask?”


End file.
